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See that accused pedo out on bail on your left in the picture above? The big bloke wearing the black and red James Hird designed frock and sporting  the Lenny Hayes hand-crafted star of St Kilda around his neck?

That’s Georgie Boy, the vice-patron of the ravenous Richmond Tigers, although over here in Geebung – where the picture was taken while me, Kevvie, Annie and the gang from the Bunger weren’t looking. because we were out on the bay catching fish on the RSL social club trip; or Kevvie and the boys were anyway, Annie were just having a leisurely nude swim and a few drinks – we just call him the Cardinal Sinner, ‘cos over in this neck of the woods we call as we see it, and that’s what he is.

Bugger Pell though.

Archie!

Sorry Mum I didn’t mean to swear.

It’s not that you idiot. Don’t say bugger around that pervo Pell. He might take it as a hint.

Oh yeah., you’re right Mum. Stuff him them.

Try again Archie..

F*ck him.

And again my boy.

Jesus Christ Mum!

Fourth time lucky son. If you don’t succeed at first …..

Oh boy! This sucks dicks .

Keep going.

Strike me pink! That cassock wearing cock sucker can kiss my arse!

Two more cracks son, then its off to bed.

That bloody one-time Arch-Basher can go and root me.

Last chance lad ……

Oh that smooth arse sniffing Cardinal sinner! Damn that prick to hell!

Bingo! See Archie, the 101 Dalmations were right after all. Not all dogs are bad son, only the ones that support Richmond, hide in the Vatican with the other pedos and like playing with little boys. 

This story’s not actually about Pell, but he’s such a vile piece of dog turd on Australia’s RM Williams boot that I can’t help kicking the kiddy fiddler every chance that I get. And Mum’s dead and I miss her heaps, so sometimes when I’m writing I hear her voice in my head and when it happens I like to run with it because it makes me smile, until of course my heart starts breaking again, and then start bawling.

(Is it normal to love your oldies so much? I dunno, but I hope so, and anyway I couldn’t really give a bugger what anyone thinks, cos Mum and Dad are the duck’s nuts in my view, alive or dead).

Anyway, this story’s not really a story at all, just an amusing vignette.

See the tall bloke he right of the picture? The fella standing behind Father Tim Norris, the long-time priest from St Kevin’s (named after Kevvie down at the Bunger RSL of course; they name all sorts of things after him, Prime Ministers even) who used to have this bird he’d always tell everyone was his housekeeper, but was really his live in root?

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Go forth and multiply parishioners, just make sure you wear your raincoat. My housekeeper has some in the drawer if the vending machine in the Bunger dunny runs out.

That lanky Stretch Armstrong bloke’s Neil ‘Robbo’ Roberts, the former State Member of Parliament and a brother in arm both because my Dad used to be his driver when he was a Minister and says he’s a good bloke, and because Peter ‘Sparky’ Simpson hates him too, my friend’s enemy being my friend and all that.

Those two qualities of Robbo’s rank him reasonably highly in my book, although there are black marks against his name too, firstly for not voting against asset sales and then latterly for helping shoehorn Leanne Linard into his safe seat rather than handing it to a loyal Labor soldier and all round good fella named Reg.

So the score’s about evens, but if we go to extra-time Robbo will win the tie-breaker every day of the week, because he holds a world record and not many blokes in the world can make that boast, particularly fellas who stretch the measuring tape to six foot five inches in the old scale or just under 2 metres in the new can boast that.

I’d give you a price about guessing what world record Robbo holds so I could pick your pocket for a bit of punting money for this arvo but it’d be like stealing from a baby and that’s not my sort of game, because you’ll never in a gazillion years be able to guess. So I’m just gunna tell you instead.

Robbo’s the world’s tallest ever  track work jockey and trotting driver, bar none.

I kid you not sportfans.

This basketball centre sized beanpole was once a harness exercise work driver in the gig at Roy McKenzie’s world famous New Zealand trotting establisment Roydon Lodge, nursery to scores of hobbled world stars, but that’s only the half of it.

He was also a gallops trainer at Warwick, held a strapper’s licence in Queensland and NSW, and rode trackwork for none other than Gai’s Dad the incomparable genius Thomas John ‘T.J’ Smith.

Six-foot bloody five and he’s barrelling ’em around Randwick at dawn.

You wouldn’t bloody believe it would you?

You don’t do you.

Now you do.

Have a great day punters. I’m off to the pub to chase a quaddie or three.

I wonder what Robbo’s riding today?

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